


All I Am I Share With You

by LayALioness



Series: Pour Me the Remembering Wine [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy asks Clarke to move in with him.</p><p>It's not really even a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Am I Share With You

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this companion piece since I wrote the first one, and I finally got around to it!
> 
> Title from The Call by Ruu Campbell.
> 
> Title of the series by Bacchus by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Raven calls while Clarke is still lying in bed, gathering up the will to leave the comfort of her comforter.

It’s just as well she does, because early-morning Raven is more vicious than any other time of day, and she likes it when she can yell at Clarke under the pretense of motivation. And she really should be getting dressed anyway, since Octavia’s coming over today, and is bound to show up at the most inconvenient time, like when Clarke’s peeing or about to hop in the shower or something.

“Morning, Reyes,” Clarke coos into her phone, sliding around the hardwood in her socks, thick and fuzzy. It’s mid-April in South Carolina, so she doesn’t really _need_ them, but they’re a cute pattern, and fun.

“Wake up, asshole,” Raven barks, and then pauses. “Why do you already sound awake? It’s like seven AM over there—that’s way too early for you. Are you dying?”

“If I was dying, would I have been able to answer the phone?”

“Maybe it was a last-minute love confession type of thing,” Raven muses. “Now that you know your end is nigh, you’ve realized I’m the real love of your life and you made a terrible mistake in not moving in with me.”

Clarke met Raven at university and they were roommates for two years before they graduated and Raven promptly moved to Hawaii, to do something for the Navy that she isn’t allowed to talk about.

She sends Clarke a care package every two months, filled with a bunch of sand and leas and grass skirts, hoping it might convince her to finally pack all her things and move to the island, like Raven’s been saying she should for two years, now.

Except—it’s not really that easy. Sure, Clarke’s a freelance graphic artist, but most of her clients are locally based. She gets a fair amount of commissions online, but not enough to live on, and she has a _life_ here. Or, at least, an hour and a half away.

Because if Clarke’s moving in with anyone anytime soon, it’ll be Bellamy—which is what she needed to talk with Raven about, in the first place.

“I’m actually glad you called,” Clarke tips the phone between her cheek and shoulder, so she can start the Keurig up. “I have something to tell you.”

The line goes quiet, and Clarke can practically _hear_ Raven’s eyes narrow with suspicion.

“You’re pregnant,” she guesses, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“If I was pregnant, I just would have snapchatted you a picture of the test,” she points out, and Raven hums agreeably.

“You were bitten by a radioactive spider,” she decides, “And so now we can finally start our kickass superhero venture.”

“Why is Spiderman always your second guess?”

“It’s bound to happen eventually, Clarke,” Raven sighs a little, clearly irritated that it hasn’t happened _yet_. “Alright, so spill it.”

“Bellamy asked me to move in with him,” Clarke says, surprisingly easy, and only gets a little nervous when Raven doesn’t speak.

Except—he didn’t _ask_ her, not really, because Bellamy is an idiot when it comes to serious conversations, and psyches himself out at the last second. So instead of just bringing it up during her last two-week visit, he snuck the extra key in her bag right before she drove home, and then waited for her to find it.

“Do you want to?” Raven asks, voice impressively even, and Clarke’s _really_ glad she called.

Raven knows about her history with Lexa, her girlfriend of six months before they decided to _step things up_ and sign a lease together. And then, the day after they got everything moved in, Lexa said it was too much pressure, and she packed her bags and left. She even left her _Keurig_ , and hadn’t bothered responding when Clarke tried to call her, to give it back, so Clarke adopted it as her own.

And Raven knows about Finn, in a more direct way, so she’s fully up-to-date on Clarke’s history of crash-and-burn exes.

Wells is, too, but. Wells is a romantic, and Clarke knows that if she called _him_ about advice, regarding Bellamy, he’d just say they’re practically married already, so why not.

Which, honestly, isn’t that far off, but. She’d just rather have an unbiased opinion. Just to be sure.

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, stirring a Hershey’s kiss in her coffee. It was how her dad used to drink it, and she never quite took to milk. “I love him, and it’s been eight months, and it’s not that far from the clients I have here, and it’s not like I have to see them every day, so—”

“Griffin, you’re babbling,” Raven snaps, and Clarke grins into her mug. Raven has no patience for romance, not anymore. She still watches _Love Actually_ every year near Christmas, and cries about Emma Thompson a lot, but that’s about as close as she gets, these days. “Why don’t you ever bother Jaha with this crap?”

“Because I prefer your prickly demeanor,” Clarke coos, and Raven makes gagging noises in the background. “I am going to call him too, though. Just to cover all my bases.”

“He’ll probably send you some weird mold bouquet as a house-warming gift,” Raven says, disgusted, even though Clarke knows for a fact that Wells sent her some _Myxomycetes_ from his time in Puerto Rico, in a glass case for her birthday, which Raven keeps out on her table. Clarke’s seen it in the background of their skype chats.

She asked Wells about it, but he’d just said “It’s orange, and beautiful. It reminded me of her.” Clarke let it drop, but she _knows_ that, with her always busy with Bellamy, their usual three-way phone calls have turned into Raven-Wells phone calls, so she’s just waiting for one of them to get tired of the distance and just show up in the other’s state.

Wells is in Alaska, studying some weird slime mold in Fairbanks. Clarke’s not sure why both of her best friends have decided to live in the two most impossible places to visit, but they’re making it work.

“Good,” Clarke chirps. “Maybe I’m jealous, since he seems to be saving all his mold spores for you.”

Raven makes a general noise of disgust. “I am going to vomit,” she declares, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“So, do you think it’s a good idea?” she pushes, worrying her lip a little. Ultimately, she knows she’ll make her own choice either way—but she’d rather have Raven on her side.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she says dismissively, and Clarke frowns. “But yes, for the record, I think it’s a good idea. It’ll save you like a thousand bucks in gas money.”

“And people say romance is dead.”

“If you want romance, call Jaha,” Raven sniffs. “Or your _boyfriend_ , I guess.”

“You’ve met him, remember,” Clarke says wryly. “You added him on snapchat. You guys facetime all the time and fight over me. You can say his name.”

“But then he’ll win, Clarke,” she says seriously, and Clarke sighs.

“My best friend is a child.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Mature.” The bell rings right as Clarke finishes her coffee. “Octavia’s here, I have to go.”

“Oh, I see how it is—trading in the best friend for the future sister-in-law, how rude—”

“ _Bye_ , Raven,” Clarke grins and hangs up before opening the door to find O dressed in a sleeveless pinstriped jumpsuit with a winter knit cap on her head. There’s a pompom on the top that jiggles when she moves. “I’m still surprised you never went to fashion school,” she says, only half-kidding, and steps aside so O can walk in, zebra print suitcase rolling along behind her.

“I prefer to grace the streets with my style for free,” she says primly, heading down towards the guest room, where she usually stays. She’s visited once or twice—once for some sort of fashion convention Clarke hadn’t ever heard of, and another time because the Real Housewives of Atlanta were doing a meet and greet, and O’s a huge fan—but never for very long.

This time she’ll be staying for three weeks, taking care of Clarke’s apartment and her collection of spider plants out on the balcony that she’s desperately trying not to kill.

Clarke follows, leaning against the doorway as she watches Octavia unpack in a flourish, like she already fits into the space, better than Clarke ever did. “Have I said I appreciate you doing this?”

Octavia rolls her eyes fondly, and grins. “Only like a million times—Clarke, relax. It’s not like it’s a huge hardship; I was getting tired of the vineyard, anyway. Your call was a godsend.”

It’s not really a secret, that Octavia’s been more and more unhappy with the family business, lately. Clarke gets it—O never really had a choice. Bellamy bought the place when she was thirteen; she’d practically grown up working it. It was all she really knew how to do, and even if she didn’t know what she wanted her life to be yet, she knew it had nothing to do with grapes.

And Lincoln’s on a business trip to California, delivering a bunch of bottles to a wedding venue, so he couldn’t act as a barrier between the Blake siblings, which meant they were arguing _again_.

Watching O now, flitting between Clarke’s plants to check for brown spots—because even if she hates those fucking grapes, her brother has instilled a green thumb in her so potent that she can’t ignore a plant in need—Clarke wonders if maybe they should just trade places. Clarke can help out at the vineyard, and Octavia can move to the city, and wear strange out-of-season clothes every day.

Clarke knows it wouldn’t work like that, though—there’s her lease to think of, which can’t simply be passed over to her boyfriend’s sister—and Lincoln, whom Octavia would never move so far away from. And the vineyard is still Octavia’s home, even if she doesn’t really like it all that much at the moment.

“Fried onions and _Housewives_?” Clarke says, and Octavia’s grin turns wicked.

“It’s like you just read my mind.”

They sit through four episodes before Clarke decides she _really_ can’t put off leaving any longer, or else she’ll get stuck in the mid-afternoon traffic, and it’ll take _hours_.

“You know, _Housewives_ and _The Bachelorette_ aren’t that different,” she says, getting her bags together. Octavia makes a face at her from the couch.

“With _The Bachelorette_ you have one person dating twenty different guys, trying to find true love within a one-season timetable, through thirty-second conversations with each. The whole idea is ludicrous. At least with the Housewives, their absurdity is front and center. No one _actually_ believes Phaedra told Nae Nae her dead dog spoke to her beyond the grave. But people still pretend like _The Bachelorette_ is actually a good platform for dating, which is ridiculous.”

It’s more of a thought-out response than Clarke was expecting—really, she was expecting something along the lines of _yeah, but Apollo._ —and she studies Octavia for a minute, evaluating. “That actually makes sense.”

Octavia pops another onion in her mouth, smugly. “I’m not a complete idiot,” she says. “I know my trash-TV. Have a good trip, mom!”

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to make a face at her, before heading out to her car.

While, for the last eight months, Clarke’s hated the distance between Greenville and Yadkin Valley, she’ll definitely miss the drive. It’s an hour and a half—two hours on a bad day—filled with the windy mountain roads she likes. Throughout autumn it feels like she’s driving through fire, with bits of orange falling on her windshield with every moment.

She’s just twenty minutes from the vineyard when Wells calls. Raven had installed one of those fancy hands-off Bluetooth things in Clarke’s car before she moved, because Clarke has a bad swerving habit _without_ distractions like cellphones, and Raven’s a worrier at heart.

“Did Raven tell you to call me?” she says, in place of hello, and can hear Wells debating whether or not to tell her.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Three hours ago. But I figured you were still visiting with Octavia.” Unlike Raven, Wells has grown very attached to the Blake’s, even though they only know each other through her skype calls and social media. Wells is the sort of friend who’ll join games on Facebook, just so he can send everyone else the virtual money he gets. O’s added him to pretty much everything, from Candy Crush, to some game where the player does nothing but eat corn.

“As always, your guesstimation math is impeccable,” Clarke says, and he laughs. “Did she tell you my news?”

“That depends. Would you prefer I heard it from you first? I have a very good poker voice.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work if you give yourself away first,” Clarke muses. “But no, I don’t care if she complained to you about it. What do you think?”

“I think you sound happy when you’re there,” Wells says, and Clarke bites back a stupid grin. Raven is definitely the necessary call, the down-to-earth second opinion she needs to hear, but Wells—Wells always seems to just _know_.

“I am,” she agrees.

“Then I think the answer’s fairly obvious.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t even a question, really. I was never gonna say no. It’s been a while since Lexa, and even when I was happy with her, I wasn’t. Not really. I always felt like I was waiting for the next step, and that was what our whole relationship was. Just a checklist we were running through.”

“Love doesn’t always have to be sensible,” Wells hums. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, so am I. Raven said you were gonna send me some weird mold as a housewarming gift, so you better deliver.”

He laughs as she turns onto her exit. “I have one in mind,” he says, and she’s not a bit surprised. He’s probably been waiting for the chance to use some obscure spores as a housewarming gift for _ages_. Wells is trying to single-handedly convince the world that mold is a lot like roses, just slimier and a little more deadly. “Red _Leocarpus_ _Fragilis_ ,” he says, which means next to nothing to her. “The spores look like pomegranate seeds. People call it the Persephone of _Amoebozoans_.”

“By _people_ do you mean you and the three other mold nerds who work with you?” she asks, because it’s either tease Wells about his weird fungi, or choke up a little. The choice is an obvious one.

She’s reached the dirt path that winds up to the vineyard by now, so she says a quick goodbye before he can suck her into a discussion on whether or not _Leocarpus_ was named after some lion’s broken wrist—she’s still going to ask Bellamy about it later, though, to be sure. He’s better at Latin than she is.

Clarke parks her car around the side of the first barn, where three dozen oak barrels sit with juice fermenting inside. The vineyard always smells sweet, and heady. It practically _tastes_ like the Muscadine grapes.

She catches Miller, the Cellarmaster, as he’s rounding the side of the barn. “Hey, Miller. Where’s Bellamy?”

Miller grins and gives her a brisk one-armed hug in greeting, before shrugging a shoulder. “Last I saw, he was out with a bunch of second graders on a field trip, stomping grapes in the field.”

“Okay, thanks.” Clarke heads off to wait in her favorite aisle between the vines, far enough away that she can’t hear the hum of farm machinery or pickers. There’s just her and the grapes, beginning to flower, and the mountain air drifting lazily.

She’d painted out here, on her last visit. She was a little rusty, since it’d been so long since she’d done any art that wasn’t digital, but. It _felt_ right. Everything about her life feels right, when she’s around Bellamy. She even loves his stupid grapes.

Clarke doesn’t know how long she sits on the earth, sketching flyaway ideas without any real purpose, before Bellamy collapses beside her with a groan, and creaky knees.

“Old man,” she teases, and he huffs a little before leaning over to kiss her. His hands trace the sides of her neck, and they’re still wet with grape juice, but she doesn’t really mind. She’s used to it.

“I didn’t know you were heading out so early,” he says, running a hand through his hair absent-mindedly, frowning when his sticky fingers catch in the curls, and she laughs. “I thought you’d stay at home until later.”

Clarke fits her fingers in his, pink stains and all, and tugs him up with her, grinning when he makes a face at his knees. He went too long not taking care of them, and now at twenty-eight, it’s catching up.

“I am home,” she says—and she _knows_ it’s sappy, alright, but so is _he_ , so are _they_ , really, because he’s a terrible influence.

And, just like she knew he would, Bellamy has that stupid grin, the one that’s contagious. He squeezes her hand, letting her lead the way back to the house. “Yeah,” he agrees. “You are.”


End file.
